


Wasting Our Young Years

by araliya



Series: The Siken Diaries [4]
Category: Glee RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-07 16:30:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14085000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/araliya/pseuds/araliya
Summary: Dare I say it, Badboy!Darren?





	Wasting Our Young Years

**Author's Note:**

> Wasting Our Young Years - London Grammar
> 
> Warning for Implied Drug Use.

 

 _“We still groped for each other on the backstairs or in parked cars_ _  
_ _as the road around us_ _  
_ _grew glossy with ice and our breath softened the view through the glass_ _  
_ _already laced with frost,_ _  
_ _but more frequently I was finding myself sleepless, and he was running out of_ _  
_ _lullabies._ _  
_ _But damn if there isn’t anything sexier_ _  
_ _than a slender boy with a handgun,_   


_a fast car, a bottle of pills.”_ _  
_ _― Richard Siken, Crush_

 

Pebbles clatter against the window pane, and it would be an awful cliche but Chris won’t get his cell phone back until he passes his next maths test, so in other words: it’ll be pebbles until he’s out of school and doing whatever the hell his flimsy high school certificate will get him.

 

Sliding down the drainpipe leaves the insides of his thighs red and raw (they’ll be kissed into bruises later) and his jeans catch on the edge of the railing, tearing a little at the hem.

 

Every morning his mother does the laundry, doesn’t comment on the bedraggled clothes, only folds them wordlessly and hands them back with tired eyes. Chris takes them, gives her a hug because god knows she needs one, and doesn’t see her until the next morning, pale and smelling of hand sanitiser and hospitals.

 

Darren’s waiting for him out on the grass. He pushes him against the fence and presses his mouth against Chris’ and in that moment, all he knows is the feel of the splintering wood against his back and Darren’s fingers, gentle as ever, cupping the side of his face. He smells like cigarettes and cinnamon gum and expensive cologne.

 

They drive out to Pine Flat lake, ( _the further the better_ , Darren says), and they end up stripping and diving in head first like little boys, clothes in a heap on the bonnet of Darren’s sleek onyx car, nondescript plaid against expensive leather.

 

Chris watches Darren turn his head to the inky black sky and shut his eyes, lashes wet with water falling thick against his cheeks. He’s running, Chris knows. From his parents, from his money, from his future- as if it’s something he can outrun at all. Chris can do nothing but kiss him and hold him and in turn, feel a little bit less dead in this dusty cowtown.

 

After all, it may just be the last time- Darren will undoubtedly be shipped off to some Ivy League eyesore, and Chris at Fresno City College or something equally depressing, unless some twist of fate has him actually doing something he enjoys.

 

At first he thought the whole leather and smoke thing of Darren’s was a facade- some poor little rich boy who wanted to rebel, some poor little rich boy with his socialite mother and overbearing father, not knowing what to do with his Swiss bank accounts and golf clubs.

 

He thought that right up until one night he took Darren’s clothes off to reveal track marks.

 

Chris recoiled faster than as if he’d been slapped, and Darren had cried. They haven’t spoken about it since, but Chris knows he’s stopped. Not once since then has he seen the manic, frenzied look on Darren’s face, pupils dilated until they’re orbs of unseeing ebony. Not once since then has he had to sneak him into Chris’ ensuite, to strip off his vomit-stained clothes and douse him with icy cold water. To cry as he watched Darren shiver uncontrollably against the stark white porcelain.

 

His mother doesn’t ask where he goes at night. Chris is sure she knows; mothers know everything, but his hasn’t said anything yet. She likes that he’s happier, even though his happiness leaves purple bruises under his eyes and tears in his clothes.

 

Even with the cigarettes, the expiry date, and the fact that Chris lost his virginity on leather seats in the back of a ‘69 Charger, Chris is happier.


End file.
